Jazz Funeral

driveway, she glanced back for a second look and the car took off. Not only took off, but she had the definite feeling the driver had been looking at her, checking her out.
    Grateful she hadn’t yet tossed her keys in her purse, she hopped back in the car and followed. Another car pulled out ahead of her and momentartly slowed her progress. But to her amazement, it speeded up instantly, took the corner as if it was the one chasing the Honda. And once around the corner, applied pedal unceremoniously to metal. If Melody was the one in the Accord, she had more than one nemesis. Skip’s heart started beating fast.
    The car had been parked on Richard’s street when Skip drove up. She hadn’t noticed anyone in it, but then she hadn’t looked. And if it were someone tracking Melody, they would have hunched down anyway.
    The Honda went through a yellow light, which promptly turned red, and the dark car ran it. Skip would have followed, but traffic was heavy. There was no way.
    She peeled out on green, and had gone five blocks before she realized there wasn’t a prayer. Neither car was in sight and there were too many places they could have turned off—she hadn’t been able to get a plate number on either one, and had only the most cursory of descriptions. She radioed the detective bureau and asked the desk officer to phone Madeleine Richard, ask her if she had a little silver Accord.
    Three more blocks, four more, drivers honking and cursing. Nothing.
    The desk officer radioed back—Richard’s phone didn’t answer.
    Damn! Damn, damn, damn! She kept driving, kept looking fruitlessly, depressed and panicky, mentally urging Melody on.
    Drive, baby, drive. Outrun that son of a bitch. You can do it. She kept saying it over and over: You can do it. Her whole being went into it, backing Melody up, until it seemed as if she was putting more energy into that than into actually trying to find her.
    After half an hour she stopped, near tears, knowing it was hopeless. Her adrenaline should have been flowing, she shouldn’t have been so worried, so emotionally involved, but all she could think of was how close the second car had been to the Honda, how close the murderer to Melody.
    Here’s wishing you a green light, baby.
    She went back to Richard’s. It was a wonderful old Victorian camelback, near Audubon Park. With no Accord parked in front.
    Richard wore khaki shorts, T-shirt, and a very worried look. She was pretty, with longish dark hair that was slightly wilted in the heat. She had a lot of color in her face and very white teeth.
    The worried look gave way to disappointment when she saw Skip.
    “Dr. Richard? Skip Langdon.” She showed her badge.
    Richard looked suddenly very frightened.
    “Do you own a silver Accord?”
    “Yes. I lent it to someone. Has there, uh—been an accident?” Her voice was urgent.
    “No. Not that I know of. But I need to talk to you about it.”
    Richard relaxed a little. “Come in. Would you like some iced tea?”
    The living room had a light, airy, lace-curtain look. It was done up in chintz and antiques, and had a window seat, which gave it a welcoming warmth.
    “What a nice room,” Skip blurted. Richard smiled, seemed to relax.
    “You don’t sound like a detective.”
    “Don’t I?” Skip smiled back. “I’d love some tea.”
    When she came back, Skip said, “Could you tell me where your car is right now?”
    “I thought maybe you could tell me.”
    “Are you saying it’s been stolen?”
    “I told you. I lent it to someone.”
    “Melody Brocato’s your client, isn’t she?”
    “I’m afraid that information’s confidential.”
    “Dr. Richard, let me tell you something. The person driving that car was last seen being pursued by someone in another car—a dark-colored American job, fairly old. Does that ring a bell?”
    She looked alarmed. “No. Not at all.”
    “Do you mind telling me who you lent your car to?”
    “Yes!” She answered immediately. Then stood up and walked to the window, stared out. “Let me think a minute.”
    Skip kept quiet.
    “I think I have to tell you,” she said finally. “It’s Melody. She came here with a problem. I lent her my car to—”
    “Dr. Richard, every second you stall could endanger Melody’s life. What problem?”
    She shook her head slightly, waved a hand. “A nothing problem. A minor medical thing—but she didn’t know it was minor. I tried to get her to talk, and honestly I think I’d have succeeded if I